Diagnosis: Bite Me
by leiascully
Summary: A preseries crossover with the show The Lone Gunmen hence a different team of Fellows.  House must diagnose Frohike, Byers, and Langly.


"Dr. House!"

House glanced over his shoulder: the voice was unfamiliar, and if Cuddy had gotten a new minion, he needed to know about it sooner rather than later. This guy looked like Cuddy's type. A big blond lunk. He ignored the guy and tried to limp a little faster down the hall. The sanctuary of his office wasn't far. Maybe he could lock the door and draw the blinds. His Gameboy was lonely these days. He peeked over his shoulder again. Damn. Change of plans: he might have time to reach the conference room. He swung his cane strongly, but the guy caught up with him before he had reached the door and put a big hand on House's shoulder. House rolled his eyes and faced the guy.

"Tell Wilson he's generous, but it's not my birthday and I'm tired of Chippendales."

"What?" said the guy, and put out his hand, grinning. "I'm Jimmy. Jimmy Bond."

House raised his eyebrows. "Wow. Bye."

"Dr. House, you gotta help my friends. We came all the way from D.C."

"No, I don't," House said, and watched the guy draw his eyebrows together like a puzzled child. Maybe not Cuddy's type. Her assistants tended to be smoother. Graduates of the finest secretarial courses the coast's business schools had to offer. This guy seemed like he'd be better suited to teaching a bunch of kindergarteners how to finger-paint.

"But...you're a doctor. They're sick. You have to help them."

"Really don't," said House. "It's lunchtime." He shook free from the distressed-looking lunk.

"Dr. House!" the guy called after him. "Dr. Cuddy said to tell you that if you don't get your, um, butt to the clinic and treat my friends, she'll have your butt on a platter and she'll have your head cut off and mounted on a plaque."

"Her bark is worse than her bite," House shouted back.

"She said she'll cut off your supply!" the guy said. "Whatever that means."

House paused with his hand on the handle of the door. "Touché," he said to an imaginary Cuddy, who had her feet propped on his desk (not high enough that he could see up her skirt) and a pleased smirk on her face. "Lead on, McGruff," he said to the guy, who looked confused but pleased, grinning like he'd just won a car on Wheel of Fortune.

There were three miserable and fairly scruffy guys in the exam room of the clinic. Two were greasy hacker types. The blond hacker had a Korn shirt that was wrinkled where he kept scratching his ribs. The other hacker sat on the exam table kicking his feet and looking around. The third guy was painfully neat in a shabby suit and had a painful cough to go with it.

"So," said House, "we've got Itchy, Sneezy, and don't tell me, Weeping Sores?"

"Bite me," said Itchy.

"Excuse me," said House, wrinkling his nose. "I've got grateful patients to save." Cuddy was going to answer for this one. He swung open the door of the exam room dramatically and almost ran into her. She smiled graciously at the three weirdos and drew him out of the room.

"Thanks for taking them on," she said.

"I only did it because you put the squeeze on me," he said. "I can think of better ways for you to occupy your time if you really want something to get your hands around. Why do I have to diagnose these idiots? Or can't someone with fewer than two specialties hand out cough drops and antihistamines?"

"They came asking for you," she said, her voice low. He leaned in to be able to hear her, and coincidentally, to leer down her shirt. The girls were looking round and firm. "House, are you listening to me, or are you staring down my shirt?"

"I'm multitasking," he said. "Working on a Grand Unified Theory of why everyone else is an idiot and composing a symphony to your physical charms as well. Unfortunately, the timbre of your voice is reminding me of your less charming points. Hurry up."

"They're apparently distinguished journalists, and they're worried about confidentiality and somebody following them. They didn't want to go to a local hospital."

"What, so they promised you an article and you promised them me?"

"No," she said, a gleam in her eye. "You think those three publish anywhere reputable? I just wanted them out of my office." She sashayed towards the nurses' station and he watched her go through narrowed eyes before turning to the nearest nurse. "Page my team." He hobbled back into the exam room.

"Attention sickies," he said, swinging open the door. "Itchy, Sneezy, and...you need a name that rhymes." He looked the short guy over: fingerless gloves and a vest? Who did the guy think he was kidding? "Greasy. I'm turning you over to my team." Greasy bristled.

"You can't do that!" said Jimmy with a look of horror in his big puppy eyes. He came over and put his big hands on House's shoulders. House shrugged him off. "They're journalists! If they're sick, who's going to report the things that need reporting? Who's going to protect the people from the shadow government? Dr. House, these people need you."

"Nope!" said House, almost cheerful at the prospect. He'd assign Corso to the blond one who was probably still a virgin. Maybe they could sympathize. Jones could have the prissy one in the suit. She'd appreciate that, given her notable lack of patience with anybody timid. Greasy would go to Sanchez in hopes that there'd be a fistfight to bet on later: she had a great rack and a better left hook. "They need doctors. Fortunately, I have plenty of those on hand. I'd treat you myself, but I don't want to get covered in paranoia. Besides, if I"m around sick people, I might get sick. I'm already crippled. You wouldn't want me to get sick too, would you, Jimmy?"

"I...well, if you think it's best to have your team handle it..." Jimmy trailed off, looking perplexed.

"Don't worry about it, big guy," said Greasy, patting Jimmy on the shoulder. It was quite a stretch. House smiled ingratiatingly as Greasy glowered up at him. "He's just another jackass doctor."

"You paged, Dr. House?" His team crowded into the room.

"Go forth and heal!" said House. "I'll be in my office. Bring me symptom lists when you've got them." He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. "They're good for information gathering, but they're morons when it comes to diagnosing. You're journalists. I'm sure you'd understand." Itchy actually looked a little less sullen at that comment. Sneezy frowned.

"Dr. House," he said, "we do appreciate your time and effort."

"Think nothing of it," said House, waving one hand airily.

"Asshole," he heard Itchy whine as he escaped from the clinic, and Greasy grumbled something in response. House wondered if he'd be able to find some tinfoil and craft a hat before his team came up with symptoms and histories for the whiteboard.

"Tell me about your anarchists," Wilson said, popping the top off a beer.

"No big deal," House said. "Itchy had Fifth Disease. Apparently his mother never let him play with others. Or maybe they shunned him. He's got that kind of personality."

"Takes one to know one," Wilson said comfortably, digging into a bowl of popcorn.

House glared without menace. "Sneezy had sarcoidosis. Corticosteroids, he'll be fine. Though Itchy demanded to know why Sneezy got steroids. If he wants to bulk up, he should try lifting iron instead of Red Bulls."

"As always, your advice is flawless. What about Greasy?"

"Ah." House settled back into the cushions, a smug smile shaping itself around the mouth of the beer bottle. "Greasy was almost a challenge."

Wilson waited through a long sip of beer and a couple of handfuls of popcorn. House pretended to be enthralled by the explosions and snarky comments coming from the television. "And?" Wilson burst out, finally. House said nothing, shoving popcorn into his mouth, his mouth slick with fake butter. "Septicemia due to melioidosis? Wegener's granulamatosis? Epidermolysis bullosa? Orf, for God's sake?"

"This is why you don't have your own made-up department," House said with satisfaction. He paused. "Late onset Behçet's Disease. He thought it was cold sores and allergies all those years."

Wilson whistled. "How'd they end up with those?"

"Who knows?" said House. "Maybe there really is a secret government conspiracy infecting the truth-seekers. Or maybe their basement lair isn't well-ventilated. If only I cared."

"You should really give Sanchez a raise," Wilson said.

"Yeah," said House. "Too bad for her. Cheers."

"Cheers."


End file.
